The Outback Chronicles: Complain, party of everyone.

A table for Complain, party of everyone, is now ready to be seated.

Despite the fact that this post might be slightly contradictory, I have to touch on the ever-present fact that I can't complete one shift at work without someone's panties getting in a twist about something completely irreverent and retarded. Not to say Outback Steakhouse is of grave importance, but for the love of all things Holy - shut up. Take off your tiara, and shut up.

The serving staff at the OB is beginning to resemble my 7th grade athletics locker room while everyone was getting ready for school, for a number of reasons:

1. Every conversation sounds like a herd of catty girls, seeking out their victim.
2. Every conversation is dripping with complaints and whines that it makes my ears bleed.
3. Every conversation makes me want to slaughter baby elephants.
4. Every conversation has the intelligence level of moss.
5. It smells like body odor, mass amounts of cheap perfume to masque said body odor, and onions.

Disclaimer: I can't say that my mouth has been completely void of bitches and moans, but I feel like mine are justified and erroneous, as they are the kind of complaints that while you're complaining other people interrupt you to cry about something they find to be more important. I complain about how horribly I'm sweating, how I'd rather wear a jacket made of a man's toenails than wait on a table full of cheap highschoolers, and how I should stop eating large spoonfuls of the garlic mashed potatoes... but don't. 

But as I mentioned with the hostess stand chronicle, it seems that people make the time to complain about shit no one wants to hear. They start complaining the moment they step foot into the faux-Aussie dining establishment. This is what I hear: "Blah blah, my section sucks, my apron's dirty, I have to close?! Blah blah, I got soooo wastey faced last night I feel like shit why did Gabe schedule me? Ugh, blah blah, I'm fat, I don't want to work, my tables are assholes, why am I not getting tipped? Blah, Omg [insert name of innocent bystander at work who happened to be in the line-of-gossip] is such a flaming dick bag, blah blah BLAH." 

Drama is so unbecoming, and I'm being encompassed by it nightly. I'm just shy of spreading nasty, sex-related rumors about everyone who bitches at work. It has the potential to backfire. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Confessions of an ex-heifer.

It has come to my attention that I closely resemble an M&M. On the outside is a hard, colorful outer shell. And on the inside - chocolate.

From ages birth until I was 18 I would venture to say I could have easily gotten a scholarship to Jenny Craig; as I was the perfect candidate. Rotund and full of imagination, I was your favorite fat kid. And oblivious at that. I was the token fatty with all of my friends. They were twigs, and I didn't seem to let it stop me from attempting to borrow their clothes. Not to mention, my sister was a star gymnast and cheerleader who went through boyfriends like I go through brain cells when I watch Jersey Shore. Needless to say, self-image issues began early.


Since I weighed 135lbs in 3rd grade, I had a lot of physical clout over a lot of people. Specifically, boys on the soccer field at recess. I planned my wardrobe accordingly, but sometimes I had to wear something warmer than my Sheryl Crow tee, jorts and my Nike sneaks. I remember specifically the pairs of jeans I would leave unbuttoned for school, because they were puncturing my stomach. So much so, that had I been pregnant, it would have been easy for me to have a self-handled abortion. Sweatshirts became a necessity for coverage.

When I was 18, my sister and I went to Starbucks and began chit chatting about our youth. She told me that one evening during family dinner, she noticed I was going in for thirds. It happens to be that my mother's spaghetti is that bad ass. Anyway, after dinner she burst into tears. She told me she was crying because she thought I would never lose the weight; that I would become obese. My mother reassured her that it was just baby fat, and that it would pass. To which my sister replied: "She's 14!"

My fupa didn't go away immediately. It took a little while. The summer before 10th grade I started working out a little harder for soccer and volleyball, so I slimmed down and voila! Got a boyfriend. In his defense, he's not a shallow ass bag, my new sexy teenage bod was all he knew. We just met. Anyway, during volleyball preseason I was moved to Varsity as a sophomore to give the bench some depth. And I wasn't about to be the salmon in this river, so I did what the other girls did as game-day rituals. Chick-fil-a before every game, peanut butter straight out of the tub before games when we had tournaments (you know, quick energy), and something after the game for muscle rebuilding. Keep in mind, I rode the bench for half of the season since the entire team was comprised of seniors. I put on a few pounds, and was dumped around Christmas time. We got back together, but I'm still convinced he started having second thoughts about the outer me, what with my helmet haircut and my perpetual Buddha belly.

You know, I'm proud of my bulbous youth. I was a statistic,  and now I'm just a sloth. No longer being an athlete really takes a toll on your motivation to do anything but sit around. After my shoulder surgery it was hard to bounce back into my once-active lifestyle. Now I'm paying someone to make me work out. You'd think I would know how to work out after 18 years of doing so.

But I need to offset the amount of chocolate covered almonds I consume. So, money well spent.

I live every day longing to have been born 7 years earlier.

If you don't know me, or if you haven't made this realization on your own, the 90s are the best 10 years that the world will ever know. If you disagree, then go drink bleach.

I grew up with 3 people who got to fully experience the essence of the 90s: my sister, who is often mistaken for a red-headed Cabbage Patch kid, my brother, whose Doppelganger would have easily been Zack Morris and my cousin Erin, who mourned over Kurt Cobain's death more than Courtney Love did. Those 3 got to live in the 90s. And I say "live" with the utmost intent. I got to be alive in the 90s, but I didn't get to live. I didn't get to experience my pre-teen years, tween years, teen years, and all other synonyms for adolescence in the 90s. They get to remember everything! They remember grunge, Nirvana, the sexual innuendos in Clueless that I didn't get until I was 17, Blimpie, The Cookie Monster when he was actually eating cookies instead of vegetables, the never-ending competition between MTV and VH1, and everything else that could possibly bring a human being joy.

And here I am. Being forced into the digital age, expected to erase my memory of disposable cameras and JNCO jeans.

But I refuse.

Thus, consider this long-overdue post a refresher of joy. A pedestal for awesome music, perfect humor and undeniably cool fashion. Consider this... an ode to the few wonderful things I remember from my brief childhood in the 90s:

Childhood memory #1: Adidas wind pants.

Adidas wind pants were my go-to pair of pants when I went to the skating rink. I liked the way they flowed and flapped behind me as I speed skated to the tunes of any Boyz II Men song, and "Everybody" by Backstreet Boys. The only reason I was cool was because I wore Adidas wind pants to Hurst Skate, which was just as appropriate as someone wearing flannel and a weed pendant necklace to a Third Eye Blind concert. There was another skating rink called Skatetown that was slightly less white trash and more for a popular crowd. But I never went to Skatetown. My mom didn't want to drive that far.

Childhood memory #2: Grand Champions.

Grand Champions, the most beautiful horses in the world! Palamino, Stallion, Thoroughbred, Spotted Appaloosa... Not only did I have about 47 different plastic Grand Champions, I had the game, reins, hygienal supplies, saddles, blankets,  and a large suitcase to tote my prized collection. I made everyone shut up for the commercials, and spent a large sum of minutes in the toy aisle of any grocery store, staring at the beautiful, faux equines. My parents were smarter than to take me to Toys 'R Us, as I would have had a heart attack partially due to obesity and partially due to stress.

Childhood memory #3: After school specials.

The best shows on TV came on after school. And did I know every single opening jingle? Yes. Full House, Step by Step, Family Matters, Boy Meets World, Saved by the Bell, Doug, and Legends of the Hidden temple, to name a few. Everyday at 3:30 I would walk home from school, fix a large bowl of Kix and/or 2 turkey and mayonnaise sandwiches to consume during my primetime TV. It's a wonder I was overweight.

There are so many memories that I want to ramble on about, but will spare you the paragraphs. My only request is that someone find me the jean overalls I used to wear with a sports bra, and go rollerblading with me.